Tiny R is a black, neutered male, Mini-Lop bunny who lives
with us. He is a House Rabbit.

Tiny R is an extremely intelligent and alert little fellow and is curious
about absolutely everything. I have already documented some of Tiny R's
stories on the internet. In fact, he has had his own page for several months
now. If you are interested, a link can be found at the bottom of this page.

Tiny R is a very charming companion as long as you understand, and never,
ever forget, that he is a RABBIT!! We have learned to accept the fact that
Tiny R is not a dog. We watch him like a hawk whenever he is out to romp
and play. That way he is kept safe from danger andour
possessions are not full of chew marks!

Well, maybe just a few chew marks. Did I
mention he's sneaky and fast?

August 1996

Here are a few
observations about Tiny R in limerick form:

Tiny R is a one-of-a-kind.
A rabbit like him you won't find.
We've become steadfast chums.
When he's happy, he hums.
His demeanor is sweetly inclined.

Chewing on cords is a habit
Enjoyed by our sneaky House Rabbit.
He thinks it's great fun
When we race with our bun
To get there before he can grabbit.

Tiny R is our cord-chomper's name.
Chewing cords is his fav-or-ite game.
Power, printer or phone,
He won't leave them alone.
Our poor "com" center's just not the same.

Rabbits like to do just as they please
But it's easy to make a bun "Freeze!!!".
When you've tired of his game,
With a squirt gun take aim
And just give it a good, solid squeeze.

That is one way to make your bun learn
That your "NO!!" simply cannot be spurned.
With a look of surprise
His acts he'll revise
After making a 180 degree turn.

* * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * *

Sambo, the People-Watching Cat, and the Silver Flash

I am reminded of one special cat. Actually he was the
first cat we ever had and the only cat we got on purpose. We got him as
a kitten and named him Sambo. He was a short-haired black cat and quickly
adapted to our family. Sambo was never intimidated by our two fox terriers
and they simply ignored him.

Sambo was an "outside" cat and that suited him fine. He always
showed a lot of interest in everything that went on around the yard and
enjoyed following us around when we were outside.

And Sambo had a fascination for shiny objects. My baton, for instance.

When I was in high school back in the 1950's, almost all the girls in my
small town had batons. Learning how to twirl a baton was just something
that we did for fun. By the time a girl got into 7th grade, she had either
received a baton as a gift from her folks or, if money was real tight,
(and it often was) she improvised.

A girl could usually find an old broom around the house. Then all she had
to do was ask her dad to cut off a piece to match the length from her arm
pit to finger tips. The cut-to-fit broomstick baton wasn't the best but
it filled the gap until she got old enough to babysit and earn money to
buy a real one. You could buy a very nice baton for around $5. But, of
course, babysitting wages were only 25¢ or 35¢ an hour and that
included doing light housework, too.

We even brought our batons and broomsticks to school and had informal baton
twirling classes at noon recess. The eighth grade girls helped those of
who were just beginning. And we all had a lot of fun.

Anyway, getting back to Sambo, the Cat . . . . .

One sunny morning I was outside twirling my baton. My favorite place to
practice was near the kitchen because there was a huge plate glass window
that made a perfect mirror when the sun was just right. I used that plate
glass window to see how I looked, similar to the way ballet dancers practice
in front of a mirror.

That particular day Sambo had settled down nearby to watch. He was definitely
there on purpose to check out the action. When you are being watched by
a cat, there isn't any doubt about it.

I was feeling good. My baton was spinning like the spokes of a bike. The
reflection in the window was very impressive. I even amazed myself at the
height of my throws. And even more amazed when I was able to stick my hand
into the middle of that spinning flash of silver and catch it each time.

Even Sambo seemed impressed. He was stretched out on the lawn in one of
those "alert but relaxed" cat poses. He watched the baton go
up and he watched it come down. Over and over again. Only his head moved
as he followed the baton with his eyes. He seemed almost hypnotised by
the rhythm and sparkle of the spinning object. Then it happened!

I missed a throw completely. I don't know what went wrong but it happened
fast. The large rubber knob on the end of my baton bounced toward the tree
where Sambo was lounging and smacked him square on the head.

At first we were both stunned. And then Sambo went into action. All I could
do was watch. It was a cinch I wasn't going to be able to catch him.

Sambo let out a screech that must have been heard all over the neighborhood.
Throaty and piercing all at the same time. Then he started running in circles.
His mouth was contorted into a grimace I have seen only in monster movies.
It was a horrible, horrible sight!

I knew I had killed him. He was going to die. Then Sambo sped off in the
direction of the wash house. But from the speed he was traveling, I knew
he didn't have any plans of stopping there.

In my mind I knew what was going to happen. I had heard that animals that
were old, or sick, or injured, always went off somewhere to die. I knew
that Sambo must have sustained a massive head injury. There wasn't any
way he could possibly survive such an insult to his poor little brain.
He was definitely a gonner. And I felt absolutely miserable.

Imagine my surprise when Sambo reappeared a few hours later. He was moving
along quietly and stealthily. His head swinging back and forth, carefully
scouting out every part of the yard as he slowly made his way toward the
kitchen door. He didn't seem injured but his whole demeanor was different.
He was not the trusting, laid-back cat he used to be.

But it was almost dinner time and Sambo wasn't a cat that missed his dinner
without a good cause.

At first I thought Sambo would hate me for causing him so much pain. I
gradually realized that he held no grudge. He apparently hadn't the slightest
idea of what had happened to him and didn't connect me to it anyway.

If Sambo could have talked I think he may have said, "It just came
out of the blue! I don't really know what hit me! But I'm going to keep
my eyes wide open from now on so if it comes back, I can run like heck!"

In the days that followed, whenever I went outside to practice my baton
twirling, Sambo still came with me and took up a position to watch. But
it was always back. Wa-a-a-a-a-y back!!

* * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * *

Brownie and the Baby Bird

Our dogs always seem to catch onto the English language.
They may not understand all of it but they understand enough to make situations
kind of eerie sometimes.

Maybe it's because we talk to our dogs. Not just the baby-talk stuff. Real
conversations. After a while, most of our dogs recognize quite a few basic
words, phrases and voice inflections. And they certainly become good at
reading body language. For instance, I remember the time Brownie, our fox
terrier, helped me find a baby bird.

It was summer and, as usual, a pair of robins built their nest in one of
our trees. Also, as usual, one of the baby birds tumbled out of the nest.
The difference was, this time I found the baby bird before the cats did.

The mother and father robins had been making a terrible racket. Then, because
of their strange, dive-bombing behavior, I noticed the baby bird huddled
on the ground.

The pair of adult robins were frantic in their efforts to coax the baby
bird back into the nest. But the poor little fellow was just a few days
old and didn't have enough feathers to look fluffy, let alone fly. And
with six or seven cats patroling the yard, the baby robin was definitely
doomed without some sort of intervention.

From the beginning, the odds didn't look good. I knew nothing about being
a bird mama. And I didn't know anyone else who might. But I couldn't just
leave the defenseless little thing for the cats to chew up. So I made a
nest for the baby bird in the bottom of a large sand pail and put him on
the screened porch where he would be safe.

For the next couple of days I tried to take care of the baby bird. I dug
up worms and cut them (ugh!) into tiny bite-sized pieces and fed them to
him with tweezers. I could hear his parents chirping and calling to him
through the screen. And much to my surprise, the little guy didn't die.

Then it came to me. The parent birds hadn't given up on him. So I decided
to take the sand pail outside to see if the parent birds would come down
to him.

I carefully placed the pail on a fence post and made sure it wouldn't tip
over if a big bird perched on the rim. Then I retired to the screened porch
to watch.

Almost immediately the parent robins flew down. Then the food brigade got
underway. Dozens of times each day the adult robins made food deliveries
and the baby bird began to thrive.

Each morning I took him out in his sand pail and got him ready for the
day. The pail was tall enough and slippery enough to keep him from falling
out. I kept track of the sun and made sure to keep the pail in the shade.

When evening came, I returned the bird to the safety of the screened porch.
And in the morning the parent birds would begin their squawking to get
me to bring their baby outside to them. It didn't seem like a strange situation
at the time. We simply worked together. And all the while, the little bird
got stronger and grew a nice crop of baby feathers.

Making a "pet" out of the baby robin never entered my mind. The
whole focus was to keep him safe and give him a chance to rejoin his family.
And I got great pleasure from watching him get closer and closer to that
goal.

Baby birds grow surprisingly fast. And it wasn't too long before little
bird was beginning to flap his wings and moving around pretty well. Occasionally
he flapped his way to the rim of the pail and exercised his wings vigorously
before either hopping or falling back into the soft nest at the bottom.

Then the day came that I had dreaded. The mother and father robins were
squawking furiously. I found the pail empty. I knew little bird wasn't
ready to fly yet. And with all the cats around, I was pretty sure of what
had happened.

Brownie, our fox terrier, was with me. He always liked to be where the
action was and often followed me around when I was taking care of the baby
bird. I must have had tears in my voice because Brownie focused his attention
on me as if trying to figure out what was wrong.

All I could think to say was, "Find the bird, Brownie". Immediately
he came to attention and started sniffing along the grass and the flower
border in the yard. I knew it was in vain but Brownie was trying so hard
to find whatever it was I had lost.

Then Brownie stopped. He turned and looked up at me as if to say, "Come
here. Is this what you're looking for?" Then he poked his nose under
the leaves and moved them aside. There sat the baby robin, calm and unhurt.

No one will ever be able to convince me that Brownie didn't know exactly
what he was doing. He had been with me every day when I took the bird back
and forth. He knew it was important to me. And even when he had a chance
to let his natural canine instincts take over, he did not make any effort
to hurt the little robin.

Well, the baby robin obviously was almost ready to join his family. He
remained a few more days. Each day his wings became stronger and stronger.
And finally the pail was empty.

But I knew that it was all right this time. Because this time the parent
birds were not there in the trees squawking with anxiety. All the birds
were on their way to wherever robins go in the summer. And I am thoroughly
convinced that our little robin went with them.

* * *

Links

House Rabbit Society - Beautiful
site with lots of rabbit information. Includes general care, behavior,
health concerns, organizations, adoptions and even links to House Rabbits
with their own web pages!